Don't Look the Other Way
by Rinkinkirs
Summary: Prompt: Jane gets caught masturbating on his favourite couch at the CBI, Patrick Jane/The Couch, caught.


**Notes:** My fic for round 17 of ROK. Prompt: _Jane gets caught masturbating on his favourite couch at the CBI_, Patrick Jane/The Couch, kink: caught. (My nerves are wrecked.)  
**Warnings:** masturbation, peripherally implied slash, unsanitary use of a couch.

* * *

Jane slides his hand against the worn leather, closing his eyes. His pants are already unbuttoned, but his fingers stubbornly trace patterns on his neck, across his stomach, barely-there touches that make his breath hitch in anticipation.

It wouldn't do to rush - another opportunity like this could be a long time in coming.

He doesn't think of Lisbon, with her stubborn eyes and dainty figure; he doesn't think of Van Pelt, nor sliding his fingers through her beautiful hair; not of Rigsby, who's too innocent, or Cho, who's too shuttered. He tries not to think of anything but right here, right now, losing himself in the soft texture and comforting smells of the only place he's been able to sleep for a long time.

A slight pull at his ear lobe sends a shiver down his spine; there's nails scratching his neck, and he can only faintly remember what day it is, if he tries, and all the reasons he shouldn't do this disappears with a gasping breath when his arm brushes against a nipple through his shirt.

He only notices the steps when they stop. He holds his breath for a moment, enjoys the thrill running through his body with only a touch of apprehension. There's no reprimand; in fact, there's no words at all: just breathing and the sound of a suit jacket being dropped on a chair.

A smile spreads across his face, and he shuts his eyes.

His left hand curls around the edge of the couch as he finally slides a hand down his stomach, a light stroke of warm skin against skin, and the building tension almost makes his movement stutter. He pushes his pants out of the way, leaving a trail of glistening pre-come on his palm before he curls his hand around his cock, increasing the pressure slowly, at the same time wanting to get it over with and making it last forever.

The leather is soft against his neck, warm against the line of his back where his shirt has ridden up - he turns his face, drags his cheek against the seat, smooth as skin and warm where his body has rested, and thinks of how he must look; there's a short distance between sexy and stupid, and he's pretty sure he's walking the thin line in between. A flash of sense memory threatens to interrupt - but he clenches his hand, and it's gone with a dark whimper, the chill of his toes fading as hot blood rushes through him, making his head feel light and his muscles tense. His thumb teases the tip of his cock before he turns on his side with a flash of inspiration.

His grips firms when his knuckles brush against the cooled leather, and it is hot, but he's lying on his elbow - a horrible angle to work with - and he has to stop for a moment to work out the logistics in his mind before he switches hand and turns to lie on his back again. There are pale smears on the back of the couch - he runs his palm across them, rubs them into the worn cracks even if it's unsanitary, and it's starting to feel almost like human skin, soft and sticky with sweat, and he almost remembers before he reminds himself he doesn't want to, instead thinking of the heavy breathing that's almost synchronized with his own, blotting out the distant sound of office chatter.

He's panting, his mouth is too dry, and he briefly regrets dirtying his handkerchief earlier, but his patience is running out and he can't be bothered with finding tissues. He thrusts into his hand, just a little; the rustling of leather pillows beneath him seems inordinately loud as his little finger brushes his balls; it's been too long, he's too close; his hand grips the back of the couch, tingles spreading down his spine as warmth ignites in his stomach and _bursts_, his come painting the pillows as he gasps for air.

There's a tingle down his neck that feels different.

"Hey, Cho," he says brightly, breathlessly, chest still heaving.

"Jane." There's a minute crack in Cho's voice that tells him he's not as stoic as he wants Jane to believe.  
Jane sits up and swings his legs off the couch, cock still hanging out of his pants. Cho doesn't avert his eyes, but he doesn't seem to look, either.

"Everything calm?"

"Yes," Cho says.  
_  
__Liar_, Jane thinks fondly. "You sure?"

Cho gives him a look somewhere in between indulgent and disapproving - he can't really tell. Jane lies back down with a wicked grin, tucking himself in with shaky fingers, and folds his hands behind his head.


End file.
